“You’ve got his own word for it, haven’t you?” countered the actor. “What do you want from me? A man comes to you and says he’s a murderer, and you don’t want to believe him. Of course! You’d rather believe _I_ did it. I know you’re all against me. But you’d better be careful--some of you! There’s such a thing as libel. I’ve got lawyers to protect me!” The door opened, and a harassed-looking wireless operator stumbled forward. His earnest, long face was white with fear and his steel spectacles quivered on his long, thin nose. “Mr. Breese!” he called. “Yes? Have you a message for me?” “Yes, sir.” But the operator made no move. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Well, where is it?” demanded Breese finally. “I haven’t got it, exactly, sir--I----” “What the devil do you mean?” growled the financier. “Sir, I was about to take it--it was for you--but something went wrong with the set. I don’t know yet what happened. I worked as fast as I could. Then I went out to see if the aerial had been damaged. And--it had. Cut through. And then, when I came back, I found the set smashed to pieces, as if someone with a hammer had just banged up everything. I reported to the Captain, sir, and he just sent word for me to report to you.” “Someone deliberately smashed your set?” Breese looked at him incredulously. “But who would do a thing like that?” “I can’t understand it, sir. It’s never happened to me before.” The radio man blinked uncomfortably. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out upon his narrow forehead. “No use going into that now,” Rice said. “He’d better get to work and start repairs. Dangerous business being without radio in this storm.” “Yes, sir, it is,” agreed the operator. “I’ll get right to work, sir. I’ve got some extra equipment. I’ll see what I can do.” “That is very strange,” said Perutkin as he left. “First someone tampers with the lights. And now the wireless is smashed.” “Well, anything can happen in a storm,” put in Smith. “How can storm get into the wireless room?” Rice snorted impatiently. “But who in the world would deliberately smash our wireless?” Smith persisted. “It doesn’t seem possible.” “It doesn’t seem possible,” retorted Rice, “that this man”--pointing to the Count--“should deliberately walk on board this yacht to give himself up. Yet there he is. How and why I don’t know--yet! Perhaps he’s responsible. He’s been skulking around this boat!” “I assure you, sir,” the Count replied, “I know nothing of wireless.” “It’s damn funny,” muttered Rice. “I’d have this investigated the moment we get in!” “How much longer have we got to go?” asked Breese. “We seem to be taking hours!” “In such a storm,” said the Russian, “we must proceed cautiously.” But here the harassed-looking operator returned. He seemed shaken with puzzled fear. “I can’t understand it, sir,” he cried at Breese. “When I got back, someone had stolen all my spare equipment. I’ve searched high and low for it.”